


Same Action, Different Result

by capsicleonyourleft



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, M/M, batfam, but no one is really dead in comics it's okay, superbatfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-10
Packaged: 2020-10-14 06:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20596379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capsicleonyourleft/pseuds/capsicleonyourleft
Summary: Tim had wanted out. Had planned a life for himself, away from the madness and cruelty that characterized the streets of Gotham, away from the nightmare that Bruce had dragged him into. The letter in Bruce’s hand was proof of that, Tim’s ticket into an ivy-league university and a better life.Bruce had robbed him of it.Now, his entire family was falling apart.





	Same Action, Different Result

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a conversation with @resistancepilots about Tim’s “death” in Detective Comics Rebirth. She asked the question of what if Bruce refused to accept Tim’s death, much like Tim refused to accept Bruce’s death in the pre-flashpoint Red Robin series.

The car screeched to a halt as Bruce slammed on the breaks. The motion sent throbbing pain through his injured leg. Ignoring it, he fumbled his way out of the vehicle, dragging his sprained ankle across the cave until he reached the computers. Collapsing on the chair, he angrily ripped off his gauntlets, armour and cowl, running a hand through sweaty hair. 

Another dead end. Another wasted night with no answers. Another day of failing his son.

Grasping for the closest thing within reach, he hurled an empty tumbler at the opposite wall, the glass shattering across the cave floor. The broken pieces landed at his feet. 

A sharp pain in his right side made itself known as he shifted in the chair; when he touched the spot over his uniform, his hand came back bloodied. Hiking up the bottom of his undershirt, he was met with a jagged gash running from his hip to his lower ribs. Grunting, he reached for the bottle of whiskey on the desk, pouring it over the wound. Damn the stitches—this would have to do.

He brought the bottle to his lips next, the bitter taste of liquor burning his throat. With his other hand, he reached for the carefully-folded piece of paper now permanently kept next to the keyboard. As he read the words, he fought to keep his eyes open. The haze of alcohol made it difficult to focus and his vision turned blurry, eyes heavy from a combination of exhaustion and tears.

Tim had wanted out. Had planned a life for himself, away from the madness and cruelty that characterized the streets of Gotham, away from the nightmare that Bruce had dragged him into. The letter in Bruce’s hand was proof of that, Tim’s ticket into an ivy-league university and a better life. 

Bruce had robbed him of it. 

With shaking hands, Bruce folded the letter and placed it carefully in its place. Typing his passwords into the computer, he began pulling up footage from every street camera and satellite that was active the night Tim disappeared. (_Disappeared_, he reminded himself. That’s what had happened.) There had to be something he was missing, clues he had not yet uncovered, evidence he had not yet considered. There were answers, somewhere, that would lead him to his son; Bruce just had to be astute enough to find them. 

He had lost track of time when the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs pulled away his focus. The soft padding was unique to one person, yet he did not make a sound to announce himself. Instead, it was silence that followed, and even with his back turned Bruce could feel the intense way he was being watched. 

“I don’t recall inviting you down here,” he greeted.

“It used to be I didn’t require an invitation to be welcome here,” said Clark. 

“Yes, well,” replied Bruce, draining the last of his whiskey with a long gulp, “a lot of things used to be.” He returned his focus to the computer, rewinding the same footage he’d been watching for the past forty minutes. There had to be something he was missing.

Clark sighed. Bruce poured another drink.

“How long are you going to keep this up?”

“As long as it takes,” Bruce responded, matter of fact. He turned his head to meet Clark’s gaze. His face was drawn tight, hair tousled and clothes wrinkled from sleep. It made him seem vulnerable and impossibly human. A familiar ache lodged himself in Bruce’s chest at the sight, coupled with an irrational anger pounding his thoughts. 

“He’s gone, Bruce,” said Clark. The words cut like a serrated dagger. “Tim is gone. You need to accept that.”

Bruce clenched his fists. “I’d be very careful,” he said, “about what you say to me next.”

Clark, of course, didn’t heed the warning. “You’re a man of science.” He pointed at the glass case holding Red Robin’s staff. “Look at the evidence in front of you.”

“Clark,” Bruce all but growled, taking a deep breath to calm himself, “get the hell out of my cave.”

Stubborn and defiant as ever, Clark ignored the instruction. “Bruce, please, just—” he said, expression visibly pained. “This, what you’re doing? It’s only making everything worse for the rest of us. I know how—”

“You don’t know a damn thing, Clark,” Bruce spat through clenched teeth, his control slipping by the second.

“You’re not the only one hurting, Bruce. I love and miss him, too—”

“He wasn’t your son!” Bruce billowed, the words echoing off the cave walls. The bats above them scattered at the noise, the flap of their wings the only sound in the ensuing silence.

The cruelty he had just demonstrated made Bruce ashamed. It was not the first unkind thing he had said to Clark, not the first he had pushed him away and resisted what Clark was willing to offer. Surely, there was a limit — if not to Bruce’s cruelty, then to Clark’s willingness to be battered with it.

Clark had been there from the moment he brought Dick home. Had cared for the kids and offered comfort when they were sick, cleaning vomit and feeding them. Had offered guidance and hope in a way Bruce never knew how. Had been a co-parent in every way but in the eyes of the law. They’d talked about adoption, more than once — it was always Bruce who resisted. Always Bruce who pointed out it was too risky to merge their civilian lives together, to make their family public and official. 

_We don’t need anyone’s validation, Clark — what we have, no piece of paper is going to change it. You’re my family. We are family._

It’s a vow he had just broken, and there was no coming back from it.

Clark’s expression hardened — a move he’d surely mastered by spending too much time with Bruce — and he turned to leave.

“Clark—”

_“No,” _said Clark, without turning to face him. Bruce knew him well enough to recognize the subtle croak in his voice, to notice the tension in his shoulders as he fought to control his shaking. “I don’t know what I was expecting. Twelve years I’ve been by your side, and still you accuse me of not loving this family enough. I never was able to convince you I gave a damn. You know what? I’m done trying, you self-centred asshole.”

Bruce cringed at the rebuke, watching Clark ascend up the stairs, surely on his way to pack his bags. His hands shook as he reached for the bottle of whiskey and chugged the remaining liquor. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the hot sting of tears that threatened to spill. He had to focus, he reminded himself, turning back to the computer and torturous footage. 

_You can fix it_, he reminded himself, unsure if it was a promise or a prayer.

All that mattered was finding Tim. Then, he could put him family back together.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://jewishclarkkent.tumblr.com/post/187589284666/fic-bruceclark-batfam)


End file.
